


i'm too tired to be tough (just wanna be loved)

by expectopatronuz



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, can i even tag this as hurt/comfort? i mean it is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25794127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuz/pseuds/expectopatronuz
Summary: “Are you ever real at all?”“Of course I am,” Ashton says, hurt.“I feel like I don’t know a thing about you.”“That’s not true,” Ashton says.or, Ashton has always seen right through Michael
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	i'm too tired to be tough (just wanna be loved)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic exists because [bella](https://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) told me that [defenceless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nk37by3cO0Q) is a mashton song and this came out of my brain unprompted. thank you to her for convincing me to post this even though it is super unlike what i normally do, and thank you to [meghna](https://reveriesofawriter.tumblr.com/) for being super supportive and encouraging! i love you both, thank you for being absolutely wonderful all the time!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, PLEASE BE SAFE. SKIP THIS ONE IF YOU HAVE ANY CONCERNS AT ALL!! i'd be happy to answer questions on [tumblr](https://calumsclifford.tumblr.com/) if you have any! quick aside because most people don't read these anyways, those of you who have read my fic from another fandom know already that i was in a dark place a very long time ago, now. i've been lucky enough to have a wonderful support system and i am very happy and healthy now, so i am doing very well! 
> 
> title is from [defenceless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nk37by3cO0Q) by louis tomlinson, if i didn't already give that away!

Michael finds Ashton in the kitchen, drinking out of a coffee mug shaped like a Pixar character. He’s probably just drinking water, but Ashton always chooses to drink out of the cute mugs when he’s thirsty in the middle of the night. Michael wonders if it’s because Ashton knows how much Michael loves them.

Its late enough to be considered early, and Michael is burrowed in oversized pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. It’s not cold, in their little house, but it’s cold outside, and Michael feels better when he feels cozy.

He stands in the entrance to the kitchen for a moment, watching. Ashton is sitting up on the counter, legs bent and feet resting on the other side of the sink so he can peer out the window. It’s cloudy, but they can never find the stars in the London sky anyways, so Michael isn’t sure what Ashton is looking for.

Ashton notices him, then, or at least, he stops pretending that he hasn’t noticed Michael. He takes one look and reads Michael like a picture book, the way he always has, since the very first day.

He nods his head, gesturing for Michael to come closer. He holds out his cup with one hand and wraps the other around Michael’s back to pull him into his chest. Michael goes willingly, rests his head on Ashton’s shoulder, even though the edge of the counter is digging into his hip. “Drink,” Ashton says, so Michael does. He was right, it’s just water.

“Can’t sleep?” Michael asks, even though he knows he’s not going to get a real answer.

“You know how it is,” Ashton says, predictably.

“What are you looking at?”

“Just the cars passing,” Ashton says. Michael stretches his neck to watch the road, and sure enough, even in the hours between the bars closing and the commuters waking, there’s a consistent flow of cars on the street. That’s London, Michael figures.

“Any cool ones?” Michael asks.

“An old Camaro, but other than that, no,” Ashton says. He could probably tell Michael the year and the model, if Michael cared, but as it is, Ashton is humouring him. Michael doesn’t care about cars at all.

“There are probably better cars out in the morning,” Michael says. What he means, is: _are you only awake because you knew I would need you?_

“They look better under the streetlights,” Ashton says, which completely avoids Michael’s real question, and Michael knows that Ashton understood it, because Ashton can always see right through him.

Michael hums and sips at the water again, knows that Ashton will want him to finish it. It’s a good thing, too, because he’s not sure he’s had a whole lot today. They watch out the window in silence, headlights leaving shadows as they pass.

“Are you going back to bed, tonight?” Ashton asks. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t ask Michael if he wants to talk about it, because he already knows.

“No,” Michael says. He should, but he can’t. “Are you?”

“No,” Ashton says. Michael knows that Ashton’s answer was dependant on his, and he feels bad, but not bad enough to overtake how much he needs it.

“Did you sleep at all?” Michael asks, soft into Ashton’s neck.

“Did you?”

Michael is silent for a moment, doesn’t bother answering Ashton’s question, because he already knows the answer. “Why don’t you ever let me see you?” Michael asks.

“You see me,” Ashton says. “You see me better than anyone else ever has.”

“That’s still barely at all.”

“I know,” Ashton says. It’s almost sad, but it’s more resigned. “Are you done your water?”

Michael refrains from reminding Ashton that it was his water, instead just shakes his head and brings the mug to his lips, finishes it in one long swig.

“Good,” Ashton says, takes the mug only to set it next to the sink. He drops his legs from the counter and lets Michael go so that he can slide down onto the floor. “Come on.”

Michael follows Ashton to the couch, where Ashton lies down, close to the edge. Michael crawls into his spot, wedged between the couch and Ashton’s side.

“What do you want to watch?” Ashton asks, and Michael shrugs. Ashton finds a channel playing SpongeBob, which is a good choice, because they’ve both already seen every episode.

Michael isn’t paying attention, but he can feel Ashton’s puffs of breath on the top of his head when he lets out little laughs. Instead, Michael is paying attention to his ear pressed to Ashton’s chest, to the heartbeats and to the rise and fall under Michael’s head. He’s paying attention to Ashton’s arm resting under his neck, wrapped up to stretch his fingers across Michael’s back. He’s paying attention to Ashton’s other hand, playing with Michael’s fingers over his ribs.

They don’t sleep, but Michael knows that wasn’t Ashton’s intention. They just lie together in the quiet of the early hours until the city wakes around them.

Michael is sitting on the floor of an ensuite bathroom in Niall Horan’s impossibly large hotel suite. He’s been in here too long, he can hear chatter and music from the other side of every wall, and it’s too late to still be at a party. Michael doesn’t know who these friends of Niall’s are, that they want to keep celebrating until the sun is nearly rising.

He hates it, and he can’t leave, because Niall had proclaimed the party in honour of 5 Seconds of Summer’s first time playing an arena. He can’t leave, because it’s his own damn party.

He’s been waiting for Ashton to find him for a while now, and maybe Ashton hasn’t noticed or maybe Ashton’s not been able to find him, but Ashton’s not here, so Michael finally caves and he texts him.

He waits for a few long minutes, and finally there’s a knocking at the door, gentle and familiar. “Michael? Can you let me in?”

Michael reaches from where he’s on the ground against the wall and unlocks the door. Ashton hears and lets himself in, locks the door behind him and sits next to Michael, shoulder touching shoulder.

“How long have you been in here?” Ashton asks, gentle and steady, exactly what Michael needs, like always. 

“A while,” Michael says. “Does Niall hate me for disappearing?”

“No, he just wants you to have a good time.”

“Did anyone even notice I was gone?” Michael says, which is somehow worse than them being angry at him for leaving.

“Of course,” Ashton says. “It’s just so busy out there, it’s hard to keep track,” which. Is not. Like, _great_ to hear.

Michael leans forward, rests his arms over his knees then his head on his arms. He takes a few, staggeringly shaky breaths and tries to brace himself to go back out there.

“Do you remember what I said to you when we first met?” Ashton asks. His hand comes up to Michael’s back, rubbing up and down between his shoulder blades.

“No,” Michael says defiantly, because he does remember, but he doesn’t want to.

Ashton, of course, knows this, but pretends that he doesn’t. “You don’t have to stay anywhere if it makes you uncomfortable. You can always leave.”

“I’m not supposed to be uncomfortable, though,” Michael says, because this party is for him, and for them, and he and Ashton should not be holed up in a bathroom. Michael takes a couple more breaths, stilted and rough, then stands. “Come on,” he says to Ashton, who does not move.

“Sit down, Michael.”

“No. This is our party, and I can’t just – just come on.”

“Michael,” Ashton says again, kind but firm. Michael collapses back onto the ground, rough and careless. He bangs his elbow on the way down, but he doesn’t feel it. “Michael,” Ashton says again, a little harder.

“Leave me alone,” Michael says. He wants – he doesn’t know what he wants. He knows that whatever it is, Ashton won’t like it.

“You’re drunk,” Ashton says, but he says it like he hopes it, not like he knows it, and Ashton always knows him.

“I’m not,” Michael says. He curls tighter into a ball, gets another inch of space between him and Ashton. “I just want you to go.”

“No, you don’t,” Ashton says. He reaches out his arm and waits while Michael glares, until, of course, he caves and tucks himself into Ashton’s side.

“You’re supposed to be having fun,” Michael says. “You’re supposed to be out there, celebrating.”

“I’d rather be with you, with just you,” Ashton says, Michael shakes his head. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that he could lay himself on the line, tell Ashton everything, because Ashton probably already knows it.

But knowing that Ashton knows and telling him are different beasts, and Michael can’t make the words come out of his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Ashton says.

“It’s not,” Michael argues.

“I know,” Ashton says. “But it is.” Michael wants to argue, wants to tell Ashton that he doesn’t understand, but does, so he can’t.

“I can’t go back out there,” Michael admits. Ashton nods.

“We’ll wait until everyone else is gone.”

“We’ll be up all night,” Michael says, but he knows that Ashton would be up all night anyways.

“So, we’ll be up all night. Won’t be the last time.”

Ashton finds Michael up on his balcony, the night after they play the Billboard Awards.

Michael doesn’t know how high it is, has stopped paying attention in hotel elevators. He knows it’s enough for him to feel dizzy, though. There’s half an inch of space between the end of the floor and the railing, and Michael stands right up to it, toes pushed as far under as they can go.

Ashton doesn’t say anything as he comes up to lean against the railing next to Michael. He pointedly keeps his feet back, and glances over at Michael’s.

“You did well, tonight,” Ashton says.

“We played well, yeah,” Michael says, even though there’s no point in trying to deflect with Ashton.

“You especially, though. Luke and Cal were so nervous, but you played like you belong up there.”

Michael shrugs. He’s never been able to take a compliment.

“You kept them together,” Ashton says. He’s purposefully keeping a distance between them and Michael wants to scream. “You kept us together, tonight.”

“That was you, Ash. The drummer keeps the band together, everyone knows that.”

“Not us, not tonight. Tonight, whatever I did was because I had you in front of me.”

Michael just shakes his head. He knows what Ashton is doing, but he knows he won’t win an argument about it, so he doesn’t bother.

“It’s cold out here,” Ashton says. It’s not cold, it’s May in Nevada. “Let’s go inside.”

“No,” Michael says. He looks out over the lights, over the city that’s still bubbling with tourists, even this late into the night.

“Why not?” Ashton asks. Michael gets the sense that he might think he knows something that Michael doesn’t.

“I’m taking it in.”

“Taking what in?”

“Tonight, the performance, the city.” It’s not their first time playing Vegas, but it’s the most important time they’ve played Vegas.

“Have you come to any conclusions?”

“No,” Michael says. He hasn’t been able to work through any of it.

“Maybe it’s a project for another night, then,” Ashton says. Michael doesn’t move. “Michael, come on. We’ve got to go inside.”

Ashton is right, because Ashton is always right, but Michael can’t make his feet move. He wonders, briefly, if he’s been out here so long, toes shoved under the railing, that he’s cut off his circulation. He manages to wiggle them, so he knows that he can physically walk, but he still can’t make himself step back.

“Oh,” Michael says, because he doesn’t need to say anything more. He’s in Ashton’s arms before he knows what’s happening, sitting curled up in his lap, feet away from the railing. He doesn’t know how he got there, the seconds it took to move are just gone.

Michael can’t see Ashton’s face, but he can feel Ashton’s lips against the top of his head, can feel his uneven breath.

“It’s okay,” Michael says. “I’m fine.”

Ashton breathes a disbelieving laugh over his head, but Michael can feel him nod. “I know, I know you are.”

Michael waits for Ashton to let him go, but he doesn’t. He holds tight, clings to Michael like he’s worried a gust of wind will sweep him away, or something. “Are you okay?” Michael asks, even though he knows he won’t get an answer.

“It’s been a long night,” Ashton says, which Michael can agree with. He feels like the performance was a lifetime ago, or that he was a different person when it happened. He feels like he’s grown up ten times over since it ended.

“We should go to bed,” Michael says. They have travelling to do in the morning, and then press. Neither of them will sleep, but Michael feels like something between them is fragile, sitting out here in the Nevada heat.

Ashton shakes his head. His breath is still coming unevenly, and Michael wishes that just for once, Ashton would let him in.

“You can stay with me,” Michael says. He doesn’t expect Ashton to take him up on it, but it seems to calm him down. Michael can feel his breathing slow, and it takes a few long moments, but Ashton nods.

Michael moves to get up, pushes at Ashton’s shoulders, but Ashton holds tighter. “Come on,” Michael says, gently as he can. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Just need a minute,” Ashton says. Michael’s hand falls to Ashton’s neck and his fingers reach up to stroke Ashton’s hair, and Ashton doesn’t stop him.

They’re staying at a house in LA, which is better than a hotel, but Michael still feels like a guest. He can’t stop the thought that forces its way into his mind, can’t even pretend that he doesn’t, for a second, think that nowhere will ever feel life home again. Michael can’t help but feel like he’ll never have a safe place to land.

It keeps him up at night, unable to settle in, but at least he’s getting some decent songs out of it.

Michael doesn’t know what time it is – the sky is starting to go hazy the way it does just before the sun rises. He’s floating on his back in the pool, and for once, the city around him feels quiet. It’s too dry to really feel like Sydney, but this might be the closest he’ll ever get again. Even visiting, it feels like a new place.

Maybe Michael falls asleep a little bit, or maybe he just disappears into his head. He notices, in his periphery, that the water is disturbed, that a ripple washes over his face, but he doesn’t process the implication until Ashton is shaking his shoulder.

Michael stands but stays low in the water.

“You shouldn’t fall asleep in the pool,” Ashton says.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Michael says, even though he’s unsure, and even though Ashton will know.

“Why are you swimming at 5 in the morning, anyways?”

“I wanted to,” Michael says. Maybe that doesn’t quite cover it, but it is what it boils down to.

“You should at least try to sleep at night, Michael.”

“Like you have any ground to stand on,” Michael laughs. It comes out brittle, his voice hoarse.

“We’re not talking about me, right now.”

“But we _never_ talk about you.”

“You’re the one awake in the pool at 5am.”

“You were awake to find me.”

“Drop it, Michael.”

“But—”

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“So are you.”

Michael and Ashton stare each other down for a moment, a few feet of space between them, but the air feels thin. Michael thinks he might win – or at least, he might not lose, but Ashton just shakes his head.

“You’re overtired. You’re cranky and you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Michael huffs, and remembers that he doesn’t have to stay and take this – he always does, because it’s Ashton, but he doesn’t _have_ to. He climbs out of the pool and wraps himself in his towel.

“Where are you going?” Ashton asks. He leans his arms on the edge of the pool.

“To bed,” Michael says. “Apparently.”

“Don’t go,” Ashton says, surprising Michael. “Not if you’re just going to go stay awake somewhere alone.”

Michael stares at him for a long breath. “Are you ever real at all?”

“Of course I am,” Ashton says, hurt.

“I feel like I don’t know a thing about you.”

“That’s not true,” Ashton says. It’s not true, because Michael has spent years now living out of Ashton’s pocket. He knows how Ashton wakes up in the morning, knows what Ashton eats because it’s healthy and he tolerates it and what Ashton actually enjoys eating. Michael knows what Ashton likes to read and watch and listen to, all depending on his mood.

But the way Michael means it, it is true.

“Do you love me?” Michael asks before he can think about it.

“You know I do,” Ashton says.

“Not like that.”

“I know,” Ashton says. “I know what you mean.”

Michael waits for Ashton to say something more, but nothing comes, so Michael leaves, and this time, Ashton doesn’t stop him.

They have a few hours at the venue before the show starts. Michael doesn’t know where the rest of his band is – presumably, they’re off somewhere, being well-adjusted people who can go out and interact without hurting someone’s feelings.

Michael has found his way up to the very back row of the nosebleed seats in the venue they’re playing. He can’t stay long, he’s going to have to get backstage before the doors open, and security is eyeing him wearily already.

They call Ashton, because of course they do. Ashton probably told them that he’s a flight risk, or something. All of their security are wrapped around Ashton’s finger, because he appears to be the most responsible.

“I thought you were exploring, or whatever,” Michael says. Ashton looks up at him from the end of the entrance tunnel. “At least I’m not at the edge, this time,” Michael adds when Ashton starts to walk up the stairs. It’s cruel, it’s meant to hurt, and it does.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” Ashton takes the seat next to Michael.

“You know I’d never do anything,” Michael says.

“I don’t.”

It’s too serious – they don’t talk about this. They talk around it, exclusively. Michael doesn’t even think about it.

But Michael is tired, in the way that it clings deep to his bones and can’t be shaken with a good night of sleep, tired in the way that becomes so normal that he didn’t even realize he was so far behind until it was too late. He’s tired, and he can’t face Ashton like this, not when Ashton can see what he’s feeling when Michael can’t even figure it out.

“I can’t do this today,” Michael says. Ashton nods and takes Michael’s hand, threads their fingers together.

“We don’t have to talk about it, but you can’t keep coming up to the balconies alone.”

Michael ignores him, faces pointedly forward.

“Michael, you need to promise me.”

“I’ll stop,” Michael says, to placate him. The thing is, it’s going to work, because it’s Ashton.

Without his daily escape to the balconies, though, the tiredness settles even further into Michael’s skin. Tour ends and it clings, they go on vacation and it clings, they get home, and it’s still there.

He shouldn’t be living alone, probably. He’d insisted, because he needs to grow up and he needs to learn to live like an adult, but he feels like he’s sleepwalking. He goes to the studio but he has nothing to write, nothing to contribute, and Ashton watches him, and then Michael goes home and tends to lose hours at a time.

He goes for drives, sometimes. It can wake him up – hours behind the wheel until he’s out of the city, or just circles around his own block when he doesn’t trust himself to remember the way home.

He’s tired, and everything is blurring, and he ends up at Ashton’s house for the first time since he’s been home. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been.

He has a spare key, so he doesn’t knock. He finds Ashton out alone in his backyard, lying on the ground, watching the sky.

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

“What?” Ashton says, sits to look at Michael. He doesn’t seem surprised, which is frustrating and exhausting, and Michael just can’t pretend anymore, not that he’s ever really been able to, not with Ashton.

“Acting like you’re fine? I _know_ you’re not fine. I know you’re not.”

“You’ve always been the same way,” Ashton says.

“No, I’ve not. I’ve always been a fucking – a fucking open wound, and you just – you keep coming in and digging around, prodding at all of the broken things like that will fix them.”

“You think it’s any different for me? You think – you always turn up in the middle of the night when I’m – when I’m – how is it any fucking different?”

Michael is breathing hard. He sits down in the grass, too far away from Ashton to feel natural. “You’ve always seen through me.”

“You’ve always seen through me, too.”

“I don’t feel like I do.”

“It always feels louder when you’re seeing yourself from someone else’s point of view.”

“What does that even mean?” Michael asks, Ashton shakes his head.

“We’ve always had the same demons,” Ashton says, and maybe Michael _has_ known, all along. Maybe Michael has always seen exactly who Ashton is.

“I’m tired, Ash. I’m too tired for the walls.”

“Me too,” Ashton says.

“I love you,” Michael says, but Ashton has always known.

“I love you too,” Ashton says, but Michael has always known, too. “Stay here, tonight.”

“For me, or for you?”

“It doesn’t have to be me or you,” Ashton takes a deep breath and stands. “Why do you still try to pretend that we’re not a team?”

He pulls Michael to his feet and doesn’t let go of his hand when they’re up. “I don’t know,” Michael says.

They’ve held hands so many times, late so many nights. It doesn’t feel any different. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to want to.”

“Me neither, but we’ll figure that out too.”


End file.
